Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Bria is yawning as we cross into Florida.
Margo Finley.
Or at least, the name I found in my orphanage records. A name I clung to like a lifeline, proof that there was someone out there connected to me. Someone real.
The reality?
I have no idea who I’m about to meet.
The paper in my pocket is worn, the edges curled from being folded and unfolded too many times. I pull it out again anyway, tracing the address with my finger, like somehow, I can prepare myself for whatever’s waiting.
Bria notices. She glances at me from the driver’s seat, her expression unreadable. “You sure about this?”
I swallow hard. “No.”
She hums, nodding as she makes a sharp turn. “Good. Would’ve been concerned if you were.”
I let out a breathy laugh, but it’s forced. My hands tighten into fists in my lap.
“Turn left up here.”
She follows my direction, and suddenly, everything feels too real.
The roads are narrower now, lined with towering trees, the sun peeking through the branches in streaks of gold. Houses are spread out, tucked behind long driveways, their mailboxes leaning slightly from age. It’s nothing like the city. Nothing like home.
But maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe I need something that doesn’t feel like home.
Bria exhales through her nose. “You know, this could go really bad.”
“I know.”
“We could show up, and Margo could have no idea who you are.”
“I know.”
“Or she could be a total psycho.”
I glare at her. “Bria.”
She shrugs. “Just covering all the bases.”
I roll my eyes and point ahead. “There. That’s the turn.”
Bria slows as we approach a long dirt driveway, the sign at the entrance half-buried under overgrown grass.
Finley.
My stomach clenches.
Bria pulls in, the tires crunching over gravel. The house comes into view, a two-story cabin-style home, nestled between thick trees, a wraparound porch stretching across the front. It’s quiet. Too quiet.
She parks but keeps the engine running. “Okay, final chance to back out.”
I glance at her, my throat tight. “We just drove the entire day and threw our phones out the window. Where exactly am I supposed to back out to?”
She smirks. “Fair point.”
I reach for the door handle, hesitating. My pulse thrums, my chest tightening with what-ifs.
What if she doesn’t know me?
What if she slams the door in my face?
What if…
Bria nudges my shoulder. “Let’s do this, Donati.”
I take a breath. Then another. “Let’s do it, Donati.” I fire back at her.
And then, we step out.
The porch creaks under our weight as we step onto the wooden boards.
Bria whistles. “Cozy.”
I ignore her and lift my fist to knock.
Hesitate.
Then, three solid raps against the door.
The sound echoes, swallowed by the silence.
I glance at Bria. She raises a brow. “Maybe she’s dead.”
I smack her arm. “Jesus, Bria.”
“What? It happens.”
I groan. “You are the worst person to do this with.”
She grins. “And yet, here I am.”
Before I can respond, the door creaks open.
I freeze.
A woman stands in the doorway, older than I expected. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Her gray-streaked hair is pulled into a loose bun, her blue eyes sharp as they flick between us.
She doesn’t speak.
Just… looks.
I shift on my feet, suddenly feeling very, very stupid.
“Uh, hi.” I swallow hard. “Are you Margo Finley?”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Who’s asking?”
I tighten my grip on the paper in my hand. “My name is Magnolia.” My voice wavers. “Magnolia Rusco.” I use my maiden name now, not knowing what this woman knows.
The woman doesn’t react. Not at first.
Then, softer than I expect, “Magnolia Finley.”
My stomach plummets.
I feel Bria shift beside me, suddenly alert. “Okay, what the hell does that mean?”
The woman leans against the doorframe, expression unreadable. “Magnolia.” She studies me.
She sighs, rubbing her temple. “Shit.” She steps back and gestures inside. “Please, come in.”
Bria and I exchange a look.
Bria mouths, psycho.
I nudge her forward. “Go.”
She groans but steps inside. I follow, my pulse hammering.
The house is warmer than I expected. Soft light spills from antique lamps, a faint scent of cinnamon lingering in the air. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with worn paperbacks, old maps, and dusty picture frames.
The woman motions for us to sit at the kitchen table. “Coffee?”
Bria slides into a chair. “If you’re not gonna kill us, sure.”
I glare at her. “Bria.”
The woman huffs out a quiet laugh. “You’re bold. I like it.”
Bria grins. “It’s a gift.”
I sink into the chair across from her. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”
She pours two cups, sliding them over before sitting down. “First, I’m not Margo Finley.”
My stomach twists. “Then who are you?”
She exhales. “My name is Eleanor. And this?” She gestures around. “This isn’t a home. It’s a safe house.”
Bria stills. “A safe house.”
Eleanor nods. “Built by your father.” Her eyes flick to me. “For you and Cameron.”
I go cold. “My father?”
She nods. “He knew something was coming. Knew he had enemies. So, he set up an escape plan. A place for you both if things ever got bad.”
I grip the edge of the table. “Why wasn’t I told? Does Cameron know?”
Eleanor’s lips press together. “Him and your mother should know, but they never came. I was under strict orders to reach out to no one, to protect the location of this space with my life. I assumed they didn’t need it, or had perished like him, I couldn’t investigate it, your father has taken great care of me.
” She pauses. “I met him on a whim, and he changed my entire life all to protect this house, and you. Now I’m an old woman who hasn’t had to want for anything, my children went to college, became doctor’s and lawyers, all because of your father. I never asked questions.”
“What do you mean, me?”
“I’m the one who brought you to the orphanage all those years ago.”
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
“Your mother knew she couldn’t do it, didn’t want to be seen with you to keep you safe. I left you with only a paper, so if one day you needed somewhere safe, it would be ready for you.”
I inhale a sharp, timid breath as she continues. “I live next door, but I saw a car coming down the drive on the security cameras, so I slipped in through the back. You’re the first person to come to this house since your father…”
The name was never real.
I came looking for a cousin. A home.
Instead, I found a ghost.
Bria leans back, crossing her arms. “So, what now?”
Eleanor sighs. “Now? You decide what to do with what’s left.” She gestures around the space.